room a sparrow
   Darts from the open door:
Within the happy hearth-light
   One red flash,—and no more!

We see it born from darkness,
   And into darkness go:—
So is our life, King Edwin!
   Ah, that it should be so!

‘But if this pale Paulinus
   Have somewhat more to tell;
Some news of whence and whither,
   And where the Soul may dwell:—
If on that outer darkness
   The sun of Hope may shine;—
He makes life worth the living!
   I take his God for mine!’

So spake the wise old warrior;
   And all about him cried
‘Paulinus’ God hath conquer’d!
   And he shall he our guide:—
For he makes life worth living,
   Who brings this message plain,—
When our brief days are over,
   That we shall live again.’

Paulinus was one of the four missionaries sent form Rome by Gregory the Great in 601.  The marriage of Edwin, King of Northumbria, with Ethelburga, sister to Eadbald of Kent, opened Paulinus’ way to northern England.  Bede, born less than fifty years after, has given an admirable narrative of Edwin’s conversion: which is very completely told in Bright’s Early English Church History, B. IV.

Deira, (from old-Welsh deifr, waters), then comprised Eastern Yorkshire from Tees to Humber.  Goodmanham, where the meeting described was held, is some 23 miles from York.

ALFRED THE GREAT

   849-901

1

The fair-hair’d boy is at his mother’s knee,
   A many-colour’d page before them spread,
   Gay summer harvest-field of gold and red,
With lines and staves of ancient minstrelsy.
But through her eyes alone the child can see,
   From her sweet lips partake the words of song,
   And looks as one who feels a hidden wrong,
Or gazes on some feat of gramarye.
‘When thou canst use it, thine the book!’ she cried:
He blush’d, and clasp’d it to his breast with pride:—
   ‘Unkingly task!’ his comrades cry; In vain;
All work ennobles nobleness, all art,
He sees; Head governs hand; and in his heart
   All knowledge for his province he has ta’en.

2

Few the bright days, and brief the fruitful rest,
   As summer-clouds that o’er the valley flit:—
   To other tasks his genius he must fit;
The Dane is in the land, uneasy guest!
—O sacred Athelney, from pagan quest
   Secure, sole haven for the faithful boy
   Waiting God’s issue with heroic joy
And unrelaxing purpose in the breast!
The Dragon and the Raven, inch by inch,
For England fight; nor Dane nor Saxon flinch;
   Then Alfred strikes his blow; the realm is free:—
He, changing at the font his foe to friend,
Yields for the time, to gain the far-off end,
   By moderation doubling victory.

O much-vex’d life, for us too short, too dear!
   The laggard body lame behind the soul;
   Pain, that ne’er marr’d the mind’s serene control;
Breathing on earth heaven’s aether atmosphere,
God with thee, and the love that casts out fear!
   A soul in life’s salt ocean guarding sure
   The freshness of youth’s fountain sweet and pure,
And to all natural impulse crystal-clear:
To service or command, to low and high
Equal at once in magnanimity,
   The Great by right divine thou only art!
Fair star, that crowns the front of England’s morn,
Royal with Nature’s royalty inborn,
   And English to the very heart of heart!

The fair-hair’d boy: There is a singular unanimity among historians in regard to this ‘darling of the English,’ whose life has been vividly sketched by Freeman (Conquest, ch. ii); by Green (English People, B. I: ch. iii); and, earlier, by my Father in his short History of the Anglo-Saxons, ch. vi-viii.

Changing at the font: Alfred was godfather to Guthrun the Dane, when baptized after his defeat at Ethandune in 878.

A DANISH BARROW

ON THE EAST DEVON COAST

Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap!
   —A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,
   Whoe’er he was, I warrant him
Upon whose mound the single sheep
   Browses and tinkles in the sun,
   Within the narrow vale alone.

Lie still, old Dane!  This restful scene
   Suits well thy centuries of sleep:
   The soft brown roots above thee creep,
The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen,
   And,—vain memento of the spot,—
   The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.

Lie still!—Thy mother-land herself
   Would know thee not again: no more
   The Raven from the northern shore
Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,
   Through fire and blood and slaughter’d kings,
   ’Neath the black terror of his wings.

And thou,—thy very name is lost!
   The peasant only knows that here
   Bold Alfred scoop’d thy flinty bier,
And pray’d a foeman’s prayer, and tost
   His auburn, head, and said ‘One more
   Of England’s foes guards England’s shore,’

And turn’d and pass’d to other feats,
   And left thee in thine iron robe,
   To circle with the circling globe,
While Time’s corrosive dewdrop eats
  

The giant warrior to a crust
   Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.

So lie: and let the children play
   And sit like flowers upon thy grave,
   And crown with flowers,—that hardly have
A briefer blooming-tide than they;—
   By hurrying years borne on to rest,
   As thou, within the Mother’s breast.

HASTINGS

October 14: 1066

‘Gyrth, is it dawn in the sky that I see? or is all the sky blood?
Heavy and sore was the fight in the North: yet we fought for the good.
O but—Brother ’gainst brother!—’twas hard!—Now I come with a will
To baste the false bastard of France, the hide of the tanyard and mill!
   Now on the razor-edge lies
   England the priceless, the prize!
God aiding, the Raven at Stamford we smote;
One stroke more for the land here I strike and devote!’

Red with fresh breath on her lips came the dawn; and Harold uprose;
Kneels as man before God; then takes his long pole-axe, and goes
Where round their woven wall, tough ash-palisado, they crowd;
Mightily cleaves and binds, to his comrades crying aloud
  

‘Englishmen stalwart and true,
   But one word has Harold for you!
When from the field the false foreigners run,
Stand firm in your castle, and all will be won!

‘Now, with God o’er us, and Holy Rood, arm!’—And he ran for his spear:
But Gyrth held him back, ’mong his brothers Gyrth the most honour’d, most dear:
‘Go not, Harold! thine oath is against thee! the Saints look askance:
I am not king; let me lead them, me only: mine be the chance!’
   —‘No!  The leader must lead!
   Better that Harold should bleed!
To the souls I appeal, not the dust of the tomb:—
King chosen of Edward and England, I come!’

Over Heathland surge banners and lances, three armies; William the last,
Clenching his mace;